Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from Newsies belongs to Disney and not to me.
Chapter 65: Unaccounted For
The bells in St. Peter's were just beginning to chime five o'clock as Oscar slid the metal bars of the circulation window open, ready to begin processing newspaper buy-backs for the day. It was still early, and the distribution center appeared to be empty, but you never knew when some guttersnipe newsie might come plodding through the gates with a stack of papers ready to sell back.
Slouching idly behind the counter, Oscar watched as people made their way past on the street outside of the circulation gate. His Uncle Wiesel had already left for the day, and Morris was nowhere to be found, so that left Oscar to run things by himself, but it also meant he didn't have to answer to anyone, and he didn't mind that tradeoff.
His solitude was short-lived however. No sooner had he settled into a comfortable position when Racetrack Higgins came sauntering through the gate looking pleased as punch despite the fact that he had a sizable stack of papers under his arm. Oscar was surprised to see that the seasoned newsie was giving up so early; even the less-experienced headline hawkers normally wouldn't quit until it started getting dark.
"You selling those back?" Oscar asked gruffly as the other boy stepped up to the window.
"Nah," Higgins replied sarcastically. "Just knew you'd be missin' me, so I figured I'd stop by to keep you company." He set his stack of papers down on the counter and pushed them towards Oscar, who received them with a scowl.
"You're getting lazy, Higgins," he remarked as he began to count the papers. "Already calling it a day when the sun hasn't even set yet."
"Dear me, is that right?" asked Higgins glancing around himself in mock confusion. "I guess I wasn't payin' attention to the time." He grinned. "The fact is, I just won big at the card table - the poor sap didn't even know what hit 'em - and I'm takin' the rest of the day off to celebrate." The gambler's tone was gloating, and there was a gleam in his eye that irked Oscar. He couldn't figure out why, but he had the distinct impression that Higgins was silently laughing at him.
Oscar hated that feeling.
Counting out the pennies that he owed in return for the papers, the older Delancey brother pushed the change through the window with more force than necessary. "Beat it, Higgins," he growled.
"Sure thing, Oscar," came the jovial answer. "A word of advice, though…" The newsie tucked the change into his bag, then looked up, that same impish gleam in his eye. "You might wanna help your brother work on his countin'." And before Oscar could respond, Higgins gave him a cheeky little wave, then turned on his heel and sauntered away, whistling as he went.
Counting? Oscar wondered. What had the upstart newsie meant by that? His expression settled into a sullen frown as he watched Higgins leave the distribution center.
Where was Morris, anyway?
No sooner had the thought crossed Oscar's mind when he saw his brother come slinking through the back door, looking glum.
"Where've you been?" Oscar demanded.
"Nowhere," Morris answered, settling himself onto a stool next to Oscar. "Just wasn't paying attention to the time."
The same words Higgins had used - but it had to have been a coincidence.
"Well, we've got about another hour and a half," Oscar said, checking the small clock Wiesel kept behind the distribution counter. "You still want to stop by the pub on the way home?"
Morris glanced at him. "Sure...if you don't mind spotting me."
Oscar gave him a suspicious look. "We just got paid yesterday," he reminded his brother. "What happened to all your money?"
"Left it at home," Morris shrugged, almost defensively. "I forgot we were going to the pub tonight."
Oscar frowned. He wouldn't put it past his brother to neglect something like that, but still…
"All right, I'll take care of it," he said shortly. He wasn't going to give up a drink after work just because his brother was being an irresponsible fool. "But next time, you're paying."
"Sure," Morris agreed.
And though Oscar couldn't shake the niggling feeling that he was missing something, he said nothing more.
Race chuckled to himself as he made his way down the street. Riling up Oscar was always a worthwhile diversion, and Race knew that his cryptic statements had planted just enough suspicion in the older Delancey brother's mind to irritate him without revealing the true source of Race's unexpected winnings. Morris, of course, would be in no hurry to confess to his brother that he'd been gambled out of a week's pay (losing to a newsie, no less), and it was to Race's advantage that Oscar didn't find out, but he hadn't been able to pass up the opportunity to needle the other boy when the chance had presented itself.
The game that day had been Blackjack, which had made Race's victory even easier than usual; the younger Delancey couldn't count cards to save his life, and Race had beaten him several times that afternoon without lifting a finger. A more prudent boy than Morris would have quit before digging himself into an even deeper hole, but that strange and stubborn compulsion of his had won out, and he'd continued to play hand after hand with Race, much to the gambler's surprise and amusement, until finally Morris had gambled all of his money away.
Race grinned, relishing the memory of the other boy's almost-comical expression as he'd turned his pockets inside-out, realizing that he'd been bankrupted completely. He'd gotten up from the table where they'd been playing and had sullenly walked away without a word before Race had even finished gathering up his winnings.
Addiction to anything - whether gambling or drink or something else altogether - made fools of even the brightest of men, Race reflected, and Morris wasn't all that bright to begin with. It didn't make much sense that the younger Delancey brother would be so attached to a pastime that he was so unskilled at, but Race wasn't going to complain - Morris' loss was his gain, after all. It would have been interesting to see the younger Delancey brother face off against Davey in a game of cards to determine whose particular type of incompetence would prove superior - the former could bluff, but couldn't count; the latter, with some training, would probably be able to count cards just fine, but bluffing would be another story.
Race shook his head, chuckling again at the absurdity of the thought.
Whistling a tune he'd heard one of the middies at the harbor singing earlier that day, Race made his way back to the lodging house. Stepping inside, he greeted Kloppman (who was predictably nodding off at his desk), then headed up the stairs to the bunk room. It was still a little too early for dinner, so Race figured he'd lounge around for a bit while he waited for the rest of the newsies to finish selling and return home.
To his surprise, however, the bunk room wasn't deserted; Crutchie was there, sitting at the table in the back of the room. The cash box that held the Newsie Fund was open in front of him, and he was scrutinizing the numbers in the little notebook where a record of expenditures was kept, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"One of the boys in trouble?" Race asked, coming over to sit beside the other newsie. Crutchie was in charge of taking up collections whenever an extenuating circumstance arose where one of the newsies needed an unexpected amount of cash, more than what he could make from a normal day of selling. Whenever this happened, the other newsies would chip in whatever they could as a goodwill gesture, and sometimes, if the need was great enough, the collection would be supplemented with money from the Newsie Fund.
Crutchie finished whatever mental math he'd been doing in his head before answering. "Yeah," he said, sounding uncharacteristically tired. "Henry's got a situation at home - his brother was one of the strikin' trolley workers who got beat up and he's been recoverin' at home, but his ma's had to take some time off work to care for him, so they's in a tight spot right now with the rent bein' due. Henry didn't want us to help him out, but I told him that family looks out for each other, and the rest of the fellas agreed."
Crutchie held out the tin can where the collections were received, and Race peered into it curiously, giving a low whistle when he saw what was inside. Clearly, he wasn't the only one who could afford to spare some change today.
"Here, lemme chip in too," he said, digging into his pocket and dropping some coins into the can.
Crutchie hefted the receptacle in his hand before setting it down on the table. "Pretty sure we ain't gonna have to touch the Newsie Fund this time," he said, sounding satisfied. "Should be enough in there to cover what Henry said he needed. That'll be a load off his shoulders."
Race nodded. It was generally understood that anything taken from the Newsie Fund would eventually be paid back (unless those funds had gone to finance something for the group as a whole), but collections were free-will offerings - nothing was expected in return.
"Guess the fellas must've been able to move the papes easily today," he remarked. "Seems like there's a little more to go around than usual."
"It don't hurt havin' few more chippin' in," Crutchie pointed out. "Davey and Tucker both threw in some money - I ain't seen Artie yet, but he seems like the kind who'd want to help out, too."
"So why the long face?" Race asked, elbowing the other newsie lightly in the arm. "Usually you's happy when the collectin' goes well, and this is one of the biggest we've got in a while."
Crutchie exhaled - a half-laugh and a half-sigh. "I ain't bothered 'bout the collection," he clarified. "Just a little confused about this." He pointed to the notebook. "Can't make sense of why the numbers here ain't linin' up with the money we got left in the Newsie Fund."
Race craned his neck, looking at the page Crutchie indicated.
"Probably my fault," he said, after scrutinizing the numbers for a moment. "We was pullin' outta that thing left and right to feed the boys and pay the lodgin' house fees during the strike. I could've missed somethin' or forgotten to make a notation."
Crutchie turned to a new page in the notebook. "Well, you had your hands full," he said, writing the current balance of the Fund on the first line. "Could've happened to anyone. I'll just start with the new amount and track from there."
Race grunted his agreement. It bothered him a little that he'd made a slight mistake with the bookkeeping, but there had been a lot of other things going on at the time, so he'd just have to let it go.
"You done sellin' for the day?" Crutchie asked, closing up the notebook and putting it back into the cash box with the money. Leaving the collection can out on the table, he slowly got to his feet to return the Newsie Fund to its place under the floorboards. Race would have offered to do it for him, but he knew that Crutchie wouldn't have wanted the help.
"Got lucky at the card table," he said, watching as Crutchie knelt down and deftly pried up the wooden plank. "Decided to sell back my papes and take the rest of the day off to celebrate."
Crutchie gave him a knowing look. "You wasn't hustlin' Morris again, was you?"
Race shrugged, grinning a little. "Can't help it if the bummer don't know when to stop playin'."
"You know Jack don't like us gettin' too chummy with the Delanceys, Racer." Crutchie set the cash box down, then replaced the floorboard and got to his feet, limping back over to the table. "They's stinkers, that's for sure, and maybe not too bright, but they's got a mean streak a mile long, and they ain't gonna think twice about soakin' you if they's angry enough." There was a hollowness in Crutchie's voice that Race had never heard before, and he grimaced, remembering what the other newsie had gone through at the hands of the Delancey brothers. The beating at the distribution center immediately before Crutchie's arrest had been the worst of it, but Oscar and Morris had always singled out the disabled newsie for bullying.
Race felt his anger stir. He knew why Jack discouraged the newsies from crossing paths with the Delanceys any more than was necessary - the younger ones especially had to be careful - but Race wasn't the kind to let an insult pass if he could help it. Jack was usually the first one to jump in if any of the newsies were threatened, but he generally avoided full-out brawling unless it was absolutely necessary, preferring to goad the Delanceys into a chase instead and drawing their attention elsewhere. It was probably the wiser course of action, but sometimes, Race honestly would have preferred to throw fists.
"I'll be careful, Crutch," he said, keeping his voice even for the sake of his friend. "But I ain't gonna stop Morris from practically givin' away his money, not when it's gonna line my pockets and help pay for things like Henry's family's rent," he added, gesturing to the collection can. "I ain't swindlin' that sucker - I'm beatin' him fair and square, so he's got no right to be mad about it."
Crutchie gave him a tiny grin. "Guess you's right about that," he conceded.
"You bet I am." Race leaned back in his chair. "You finish sellin' early today, too?" he asked.
Crutchie nodded. "Headline wasn't bad today," he said. "Plus, I got lucky too - I was down to my last ten papes, and this lady bought the rest of 'em off of me."
Race chuckled. "That smile of yours is a gold mine, huh?"
"I think it might've actually been the limp this time," Crutchie admitted. "But I ain't complainin'." He glanced at the clock on the lodging house wall. "Wonder how Jack's first day at The World went," he mused. "Said he had to go down to the office to fill out some kinda official paperwork or somethin' - wonder if he was gonna have to talk to Pulitzer, too."
Race made a non-committal sound. He'd forgotten that that was today. He hadn't really talked to Jack in a while - they saw each other in passing, of course, but had spoken little, and Race actually didn't know many of the details concerning Jack's new job, only that he'd agreed to take it and that he'd warned Race and Crutchie that he'd be gone a little more than usual once he had to balance his responsibilities at The World with his duties at the lodging house.
Not that that was anything new, Race thought to himself. They'd already been seeing less and less of Jack, thanks to his growing relationship with Katherine, and while Race wasn't going to begrudge their leader his romantic trysts, he slightly resented the fact that, like it or not, the responsibility that he'd tried to fully hand back after Jack's return was slowly but surely finding him again.
At least Crutchie was back.
"Hey, did Jack say anything to you about how things have been goin' for Katherine?" Race asked. Jack had apprised the newsies of the sobering fact that The Refuge was still operational and that Snyder, while in custody, had yet to be sentenced. He'd warned everyone to be on their guard, but he'd also assured them that Katherine was on the case and that she was going to do everything in her power to dig up as much incriminating evidence on The Refuge as possible with the aim of publishing an article that would bring all of the institution's horrid offenses to light, hopefully putting enough pressure on those in power to finally shut the place down.
"Jack said she's still pokin' around tryin' to find a way to get information about The Refuge without givin' away why she's askin'," Crutchie said. "I bet they's on their guard right now, so it probably ain't gonna be easy for her, but she seems like she knows what she's doin'."
Race nodded in agreement. Katherine wasn't one to back down without a fight, that was for sure. She would need that tenacity if she was going to get the information she was looking for. The Refuge wasn't the kind of place you walked into - or out of - easily or without being irrevocably changed.
Speaking of The Refuge…
"How've you been doin' lately, Crutchie?" Race asked. He normally wouldn't have broached the subject, but it was rare that he and Crutchie were alone where they could speak freely. Race usually counted on Jack and Crutchie to keep tabs on each other - he knew that they talked almost nightly on the rooftop - but Race wanted to know for himself that Crutchie was adjusting all right. The strike had ended in victory for the newsies, but the aftermath had been more complicated than expected, and if there was one thing that Race knew had a way of haunting a person, it was a stay in The Refuge. He still hadn't managed to completely get away from his own experience there. And that had happened years ago.
It had been an open-ended question, but Crutchie seemed to know what Race had meant by it.
"Leg's still hurtin' me some," he said, shrugging a little. "And sometimes sleepin' at night's tough, but Jack's there."
Nightmares, Race thought. The nightmares were always the worst part of the aftereffects. No wonder Jack had been more preoccupied than usual - it hadn't just been his dates with Katherine or the anticipation of his new job keeping him so absorbed - he'd probably been losing sleep himself, comforting Crutchie and maybe even fighting off his own memories that could have resurfaced in the process.
No place should have the power to exert such misery on a person, Race thought fiercely, hoping that Katherine was finding success at that very moment in whatever investigation she was attempting. The Refuge, and Snyder, needed to go - once and for all.
"You doin' all right, Race?" Crutchie asked, no doubt catching the dark look that had crossed Race's face.
"Yeah - yeah, I'm fine, Crutch," Race said, giving the other newsie a grim smile. "Just glad you's back with us, that's all. Ain't the same without'cha."
Crutchie grinned. "Guess not," he said, smirking a little. "Folks don't seem to know how to keep a simple ledger when I ain't around - I thought you was better at your numbers than that, Race."
"Ya coot!" Race smacked the other newsie with his cap, thankful for Crutchie's levity, even if the joke was being made at his expense. "I tried, all right? Keepin' the Newsie Fund ain't my expertise."
"Yeah, I guess you's better at entertainin' than addin'," Crutchie jibed, his smile sly.
"Ah, c'mon, Crutchie," Race groused. "Give a fella a break!" But he couldn't help grinning in return, secretly relieved at the lightheartedness in his friend's voice.
Crutchie was back, and though he wasn't fully recovered, he was moving in that direction, and it gave Race hope. With any luck, things would be back to normal in time, and if the efforts currently underway proved successful in taking down The Refuge, then the fear and the flashbacks and the sleepless nights would begin to fade, slowly but surely, until they no longer held any terror but were just a faintly lingering memory.
Race fervently hoped that those days were coming soon.
A/N: Thanks for reading, friends. These last few weeks have been really difficult, but writing this story has been both a reprieve and a much-needed distraction from everything going on, and I'm so thankful to have a small group of folks who enjoy my scribbling. I look forward to polishing up and sharing each installment with you, and I appreciate you sticking with me. :)
We'll be circling back to Jack and Katherine's investigative efforts in the next chapter before we jump back over to the main pairing for a while, but if you're at all missing the Davey/Sadie content, there's a short story in Interstices, SWW's companion one-shot collection, entitled "Remnant," which features young!Sadie. It gives a little bit more of her backstory (and some of her initial thoughts on what she's romantically looking for in a boy ;)). If you'd like, feel free to check it out! In the meantime, please let me know what you thought of this chapter - I'd love to hear from you, even if it's just a word or two!
